


Media Confrontation

by AlexiaBlackbriar13



Series: Man's Best Friend [6]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anxiety, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Light Angst, News Media, Oliver Queen Has PTSD, Oliver gets a service dog, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Service Dogs, Social Anxiety, Social Issues, Social Media, season 1 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-14 22:24:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10545348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexiaBlackbriar13/pseuds/AlexiaBlackbriar13
Summary: There comes a point when the public and world has to be told that Oliver Queen has a service dog.There comes a point when the media wants a full explanation as to why and how.And there comes a point when Oliver breaks.He doesn't expect to be attending a charity gala in support of veteran mental health so soon after, and end up confronting his own emotions about the whole situation, though.





	

**Author's Note:**

> BEFORE YOU ALL ASK:  
> \- yes, the Olicity first date fic is coming.  
> \- yes, the Diggle centric one is also coming.  
> \- YES, the Quentin one and the camping one are also in the works.
> 
> Thank you for all your support, I very much appreciate it - and I hope you enjoy.

* * *

The QC press announcement that Oliver Queen had returned from Lian Yu and been medically assigned a service dog was released at noon on a Tuesday.

Oliver spent the morning at a quiet dog park with Diggle and Hunter, letting his service dog off duty for an hour or two so he could throw tennis balls for him, and watch as the German-Shepherd husky mix raced after them gleefully. Diggle had been the one to suggest the excursion, mostly because he could probably tell how stressed out and worried Oliver was about the press release. The archer had to admit, just spending time with Hunter in the park, the cool morning breeze ruffling his hair and the crisp dew-dropped glass crunching under his feet, immensely calmed him. The silence was echoing, the only sound being their breathing, and Hunter's harsh panting and paws pounding on the ground as he ran after the thrown tennis balls. Diggle walked just in front of him, occasionally chucking the tennis ball across the park when Oliver went out of it for a second, lost in thought. His bodyguard had been one of the most considerate and kind people Oliver had ever met. He always seemed to sense exactly what Oliver was feeling, and knew exactly what he needed to do to make him feel better.

Arriving back at the mansion just in time for the statement to be pushed to the media, Oliver sat hollowly on the living room couch with Hunter's head resting on his lap, his fingers tangled in his service dog's thick fur, whilst Moira and Diggle stood just behind him, watching the Channel 52 news as the bright red words of ' _BREAKING NEWS_ ' flashed onto the screen.

People were confused. People were outraged. People were disgusted. And as much as Oliver tried to convince himself that they were just PEOPLE, and they didn't matter, only his friends and family did, he couldn't get the image of the news anchor questioning whether or not this was a prank out of his head. Then, of course, after it was confirmed that it was indeed true, Oliver had been medically issued a psychiatric assistance dog, the media exploded.

Diggle turned off the TV and wouldn't let Oliver watch any more of it. But the archer didn't have to watch to know how people were reacting. They wanted explanations, and details, and they all wanted to know what happened on the island that Oliver Queen had become so fucked up in the head that he needed a service dog?

Evening came, and with it, Thea, Tommy and Laurel. Thea arrived home with a sombre expression on her face, an exhaustion about her that could have only been caused by people hounding her for information. Tommy and Laurel had been out at a lunch together with Detective Lance when the news had broken, apparently. They tried to console him that things would calm down, and people would settle, but Oliver didn't believe them. Why should he? He rejected their physical comfort, flinching away from their touch and startling when they spoke too loud or fast, and instead, he retreated to his bedroom, Hunter pressed into his side.

He didn't sleep. He spent the entire night curled up in the corner on the floor, a thin blanket draped over his legs and Hunter resting on top of them, rumbling gently in an attempt to soothe his distressed master. Oliver mapped patterns out in Hunter's fur, threading his fingers through the brown fading into cream, fighting panic attacks and flashbacks, the deep pit of fear and regret and pain in his chest aching horribly. He was concerned. The entire world now knew that Oliver Queen was mentally ill. And that completely terrified him. He'd never be seen the same way again.

The next morning at breakfast was tense. Oliver silently cut up an apple into slices on his plate with slightly shaking hands, avoiding everybody's gazes. Walter and his mother were staring at him, he could tell. Thea wasn't much better, eating but occasionally pausing to fix him with an anxious, sympathetic look which made his skin crawl.

Diggle appeared at the doorway, clearing his throat softly. Hunter rose to his feet with a sharp huff, his ears swivelling as he took in the bodyguard. As soon as he saw it was Diggle, however, Hunter relaxed and bowed his head, tail swinging to the side as he rumbled softly in greeting, settling back down at his master’s feet. Some kind of mutual respect arrangement had been set up between Dig and the service dog, as though they had accepted that they were both there to protect Oliver, his bodyguard taking on the physical threats whilst Hunter took on the mental ones.

“Good morning, Mr Diggle,” Walter greeted him, in such a cheerful voice that it had to be fake.

“Good morning,” Diggle replied quietly with a nod, continuing, “Mrs Queen, Raisa would like me to inform you that Mr Chance from QC's legal team is on the land line. He wants to speak to you."

If Chance was calling, that was not a good sign. Something had probably gone down concerning the reveal of yesterday with the press last night, which was causing difficulties for Queen Consolidated. If possible, Oliver shrunk even further into his seat, suddenly not very hungry. He fed a slice of his apple to Hunter under the table, who ate it but released a quiet, worried noise.

"Thank you, Mr Diggle," Moira nodded, standing and wiping her hands off. She hesitated, before asking Oliver carefully, "What are you planning on doing today, sweetheart?"

Oliver didn't want to confess he'd been planning on hiding in the mansion grounds with Hunter, climbing a tree and refusing to get down, so he just shrugged his slumped shoulders, answering, "I was gonna go out for lunch with Tommy and Laurel again."

Moira swallowed visibly and questioned delicately, "Are you sure you want to... expose yourself to the public like that?"

He really didn’t, but there was no use in lying low. The reporters would get to him eventually. "Locking myself in my room all day just because people can’t accept that I have a service dog isn't productive, Mom," he replied tensely, looking down at his twitching hands. Hunter nudged his fingers with a snuffle, and he managed a small smile. "I want to go out for lunch with Tommy and Laurel."

“You’ll be taking Mr Diggle with you?” Walter questioned, a glint of concern in his warm eyes.

“I don’t want to be hearing that you ditched him again,” Moira warned. “It’s incredibly rude, and you need armed protection, especially right now.”

He eyes flickered over his bodyguard, and Diggle stared back at him, giving a small nod of reassurance. "Diggle will be with me. I won’t ditch him. I want to do this, Mom."

“Oliver…”

“Mom, I can do this,” he insisted.

Moira still looked uncertain. "If you're sure."

He wasn't, but that didn't matter. He needed to show his face in public. He couldn't let people think he was weak and retreating to the shadows in fear of their reactions. So Diggle drove him to the Italian restaurant where Oliver often went to lunch with Tommy and Laurel at, the location of where he’d first introduced his ex to his service dog. Hunter seemed to notice that something was different because he stuck much closer to Oliver's side, his stance defensive and protective, ever so often baring his teeth at people who brushed too close to the archer on the street. He was wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses again, but people seemed to recognise him anyway.

Although, maybe it was Hunter they were recognising. The media must have circulated a picture of the dog by this point. Diggle remained a steady two metres in front or beside him, knowing of Oliver’s need to have a person accompanying him in his sightline at all times. The bodyguard’s presence reassured the archer so slightly, but he still felt exposed.

He couldn't even enjoy lunch. Tommy, Laurel and Diggle tried to draw him into conversation, but Oliver was ever aware of the eyes boring into his back and the other members of the public eating at the restaurant muttering about him under their breaths and staring, not even caring enough to avert their gazes when Oliver glowered back at them. Hunter seemed agitated underneath the table, making sure he kept constant contact with his master as he whined and wiggled, nuzzling Oliver's hands concernedly. If his service dog hasn't been there, calming him down, Oliver reckoned that he would have bolted out of there. 

Tommy's cell phone beeped just as they finished splitting the bill, the frigid silence that has settled over them briefly breaking as he exclaimed in stunned anger, "Oh, fuck."

When Oliver shot him a confused look, Laurel cocked an eyebrow and Diggle straightened his back, Tommy grabbed his coat and pulled Oliver to his feet, glancing around hurriedly in such a paranoid manner that the archer immediately went on the defence, shifting into battle position and narrowing his eyes, tensing his muscles.

"Somebody shared a picture of us here on Tumblr.”

Diggle immediately went into bodyguard mode, grabbing Oliver’s arm, which made the archer flinch violently. He released him quickly when the archer stepped back, wrapping his arms around his chest defensively, but Diggle’s voice was urgent as he informed them, “We’ve got to get out of here."

They slammed cash down onto the counter and hastily made their exit. Oliver’s heartbeat was thudding in his ears, anxious and jittery at the thought of being cornered by the paparazzi. He hadn’t been feeling particularly mentally stable recently, and a confrontation would probably send him into a melt down.

Diggle managed to get them around halfway to their car before they were swamped, reporters aggressively surrounding them and shouting questions, cameras clicking in their faces at such a fast place that their flashes blinded the archer. Tommy and Laurel pressed themselves into his sides to shield Oliver and Hunter gave a fierce snarl, protecting them from behind whilst Diggle lead them from out in front, shoving the paps out of the way, fighting to get them to the car.

_“Mr Queen, MR QUEEN! What happened on the island?”_

_“What mental health issues to you have to result in the issuing of a service dog?”_

_“Mr Queen, is it true you were tortured on the island?”_

_“Is it true you’ve been diagnosed as clinically insane?”_

Panic and fear clawed at Oliver's chest as there seemed to be no escape; they were caged in, reporters on all sides. The archer had to fight his instincts to flinch and lash out as Laurel and Tommy wrapped themselves around him, for his best friends' safety. His breathing stuttered and became shallow, lungs seizing as he couldn't get enough oxygen in. As he started to hyperventilate, it was like being drowned in ice cold water. He didn’t even realise it was happening, but he slipped into a state of shock and terror, violent memories of being pinned down and trapped dancing on his mind.

Oliver's eyes flitted about, desperately trying to process all the threats, but there were so many, and it was so much, too much information and he couldn't deal with it, he couldn't feel his legs and he couldn't _breathe_ and -

His knees buckled, and he collapsed.

Immediately everything seemed to freeze around him, Laurel, Tommy and Diggle's voices tinny and slurred in his ears. Hunter instantly jumped over the archer protectively, and Oliver buried his head into the service dog's fur, trying to ground himself to reality, trying to focus on anything but the reporters and the flashing and the awful noise. Hunter was whimpering, attempting to soothe him by scraping his rough tongue over his master's face, his wet nose snuffling Oliver's collarbone. Eventually, it was just Hunter in his vision, and he could only hear his dog's calmly rumble, feel his soft fur under his hands and against his face. Everything surrounding them had quietened, everybody backing off, maintaining a distance.

It was only once Oliver had stopped shaking and he breathed out, "Tommy? Laurel? Dig?" that his best friends and bodyguard darted back down to embrace him tightly, providing a secure weight on his back whilst Hunter remained on his lap. They had stepped back and forced the paparazzi away during his panic attack, protecting him. It had been a while since Oliver had felt loved and safe, but with his service dog and friends supporting him, he knew he was going to be alright.

Laurel gently took a hold of his wrist, checking his pulse whilst Tommy rubbed his back comfortingly. “Are you alright?” she asked quietly.

He didn’t know how to reply, instead ducking his head and resting it on Tommy’s shoulder with a broken, tired sound.

“Come on, let’s get you out of here, buddy.”

Diggle and Tommy helped Oliver cautiously to his feet as Laurel picked up Hunter's leash. The reporters had stopped taking pictures, and stopped yelling, and they were all quiet, standing back with shock and pity on their faces. It was extremely unusual and strange, as they never normally backed off so easily. Obviously they hadn't expected Oliver Queen, who had been a media darling five years ago, to break down and have a panic attack when confronted with a group of reporters. He wondered whether or not Diggle had yelled something at them. They cleared a path so that Tommy and Diggle could guide the archer back to the car unchallenged, Hunter tugging on his leash, nearly ripping it out of Laurel's hands as he fought to get back to his master to comfort him.

After driving back to the Queen mansion in a solemn, frigid silence, Tommy and Laurel wrapped Oliver in weighted blankets and put on some low volume music whilst Diggle made him chamomile tea, one of Walter’s preferred brews to coffee. Curled up with Hunter pressing into his side, calming him, the archer grabbed the nearest copy of Greek Literature and began reading. He'd never been that much of an avid reader before the island, but he'd actually found he'd enjoyed Greek Literature in college, and he liked reading the Odyssey and the Iliad. Reading settled his mind and allowed him to slip into a fictional universe, distracting him from his real world problems and issues.

His bodyguard approached cautiously, crouching down in front of the archer and waiting patiently as Oliver jumped skittishly at his appearance, snapping his book shut briefly. “Can I sit?” Diggle questioned softly. “I won’t touch you, I promise.”

The archer hesitated, but eventually Oliver nodded, slowly re-opening the book to his former page. Hunter eyed Diggle warily for a minute before he finally moved so that he could take his place on the couch, a warning huff being the only noise of approval he made. He liked Diggle, but when his master was in this sort of headspace, Oliver was his main priority, manners towards others be damned.

Diggle came and sat beside him, but gave the archer and his service dog enough space so they didn't feel encroached upon. He turned the music off at some point, switching on the TV instead so they could quietly watch a replay of a recent baseball game. The background noise buzzed at the back of his head as Oliver continued reading, and it was strangely calming - it existed to reassure him that he wasn’t alone. Eventually, both Tommy and Laurel had to leave, apologising and offering consoling, soothing touches on Oliver’s shoulders. He had Hunter on his lap and Diggle seated beside him, a blanket covering him, his book in hand, and the lights dimmed and curtains half drawn as the TV glowed, bathing them in a soft blue hue.

Moira and Walter both arrived home from a meeting at QC early, almost rushing into the living room, worried looks plastered over their faces. Oliver barely raised his gaze from his book, only looking at them for a short second to acknowledge them before returning to reading, running his free hand that wasn't holding the paperback down Hunter's head, stroking his ears gently. There was absolutely no doubt that they'd both seen something said about him on the news and his encounter with the paparazzi, and thought the worst. Diggle brushed his hand against Oliver's shoulder as he stood and escorted his mother and stepfather out of the room to explain. 

They probably didn’t intend for Oliver to overhear, but due to his hearing developing more on the island and reaching somewhat of an enhanced level, the archer could listen to their conversation.

“What happened, Mr Diggle?”

“Oliver was having lunch with Tommy and Laurel, but somebody shared picture of them in the restaurant on social media. We were just leaving and heading to the car when the paps arrived.”

“What is this they’re saying about him having a mental breakdown on the street?”

“It wasn’t so much as a mental breakdown, nothing that bad. The reporters were overzealous, and the sensory overload they forced Oliver into pushed him to have a panic attack. It lasted for around four minutes, and during that time Tommy and I were able to get the paps to move back and give Oliver some space. Hunter managed to calm him down and snap him out of it. How was the media response?”

“Not good. They’re making lists about potential mental illnesses my son could have, Mr Diggle. _Lists_. I knew Oliver should have stayed at home.”

“He wanted to have lunch with his friends; you can’t keep him under house arrest just because you’ve received an unfortunate response to revealing he has a service dog. Mrs Queen, Mr Steele, I will fully support your son in his decisions, always. Oliver is a very smart and capable young man. If that picture hadn’t been shared on Tumblr, and the reporters hadn’t come, Oliver would have been completely fine. It was being surrounded, shouted at and having all the cameras flashing at him that caused the panic attack.”

“So what do you propose we do, Mr Diggle?”

“In my opinion, I think it would be a good idea to make a short address to the public by offering a very small amount of information about why Oliver has a service dog, enough to pacify the people, without revealing too many personal details.”

“Do you think my son would agree to that?”

“I think your son is listening in right now and can tell us himself. Oliver?”

Heaving a resigned sigh, the archer unsteadily got to his feet, keeping one of the weighted blankets wrapped around his shoulder like a blanket and his hand buried in Hunter’s warm scruff as he trudged out into the hallway, where Diggle raised a knowing eyebrow at him. Both Moira and Walter looked vaguely surprised at his appearance.

“Oliver, you should be resting,” Walter said quietly.

“I’m fine,” he said, keeping his face blank and voice flat. “If telling them a little more about my mental health will get the media to back off, then I’m willing to go through with that. At least then Hunter and I will get some peace.”

“You shouldn’t have to reveal personal details about yourself to get the media to back off, Oliver,” Walter shook his head.

“I know.” He knew he sounded exhausted, but Oliver had accepted that this was the only choice they’d really been left with. “But the public are not embrace the fact that I have a service dog if I don’t give them at least some explanation for why I have Hunter.”

The service dog whined lowly at hearing his name called, ears swivelling back and forth and inquisitive blue eyes blinking up at the Queen matriarch and her husband. Biting her lip, Moira shot a concerned look towards Walter, but the Brit was staring directly at Oliver, his gaze calculating and cautious, as he searched the younger man’s face for any sign of discomfort or uncertainty at this idea. Oliver made sure he kept his expression carefully impassive, his twitching fingers mussing Hunter’s fur the only tell that he was in fact slightly nervous. In a show of support of the archer, Diggle had his body angled towards him, making sure that Oliver wasn’t feeling threatened or put upon. He appreciated it, especially since he felt so on edge.

“Alright,” Moira said, sounding guilty. “I’ll contact Mr Chance and both he and I will call a press conference this evening and say a few words.” She looked away frustratedly. “I did hope that this media circus would die down in time for - well, it doesn’t matter now.”

Oliver closed his eyes briefly. It was just like his mother to trail off on a sentence like that to try and attract his interest. Especially since she probably had ulterior motives for this entire situation of going public with Hunter’s presence in his life. “Mom. You can’t just end something abruptly like that and not expect us to ask what exactly you mean.”

She pretended to look downhearted, which annoyed Oliver to no end, as Moira explained flippantly, “Oh, our family was invited to a charity gala tomorrow night to support veteran mental health. I just thought that the press would have backed off so you would feel comfortable enough to attend.”

Scoffing under his breath, he kept the anger boiling in his blood contained. A charity gala supporting veteran mental health was exactly the type of event that Moira would know her son would want to go to, especially because of his own experiences with PTSD, anxiety and depression. Oliver hated being in a spotlight, but if going to the event would result in positive press and increased awareness of mental health, resulting in better health care for veterans and those suffering trauma, then he knew that he had to attend. Judging by Diggle’s expression, his bodyguard thought that he should go too.

“As long as there is tight security and all the reporters and journalists there are vetted, I’ll go.”

“Wonderful!” Moira’s face lit up, and she ignored the service dog when Hunter curled back his lip in a quiet smile. “I’ll have one of your tuxes dry cleaned and pressed, and call a groomer around to smarten up Hunter tomorrow morning.”

Oliver shook his head with an exasperated sigh. “Mom, that really isn’t necessary.”

“No, Oliver, I will not have my son and his service dog looking dishevelled at a formal event,” Moira sniffed, moving past the archer into the living room. Walter exchanged a resigned look with Diggle and Oliver, before following after her. “Speaking of dishevelled, I think you need to shave your scruff, sweetheart.”

Clenching his jaw, Oliver drew to a halt, and flexed his hands in a tense manner, only relaxing a little when Hunter licked at his fingers with a soft whine. “Why would I do that?”

“It’s untidy, and it makes you look older.”

“I think Oliver looks very distinguished,” Walter countered. “And if he wants to keep it, he should keep it, Moira.” He lowered his voice, regulating his tone so that it was even and kind. “We cannot make decisions for him, dear, he’s a grown man.”

She looked unhappy, turning away with her nose up. Hunter lowered his head, ears pricking back against his head as he bared his teeth in dislike. Usually Oliver’s service dog tolerated his mother, didn’t mind her, but when Moira presented this sort of behaviour, he always got antsy around her.

“As long as you are presentable, I will be content,” Moira finally nodded. “Please, don’t be late. And don’t arrive drunk.”

Sighing, Oliver pushed past his mother and settled back onto the couch, lifting his legs up and tugging his blanket closer around him. Hunter jumped up beside him, reaching over to grab Oliver’s book in his jaws and passing it over before he released a rumble, settling his head on his master’s knees. “I’m not that person anymore.”

“Your son hasn’t had a sip of alcohol since his return, Mrs Queen,” Diggle spoke up. He levelled a pointed look at the Queen matriarch, crossing his arms across his chest, and the archer managed a smirk at his mother’s somewhat flustered expression. “I’ll make sure that he arrives promptly.”

“Thank you, Mr Diggle.”

Walter and Moira left then, saying that they needed to get some paperwork completed for the office. Curling up into the cushions, Oliver smiled weakly at them as they left, and once he was alone in the room with his service dog and bodyguard, he motioned to Hunter to climb up onto his chest, twisting so he was lying down. A deep, resonating sound erupted from the Husky mix’s throat as he clambered onto his master’s torso, licking fondly at Oliver’s neck and chin.

“I’ll coordinate with the security at the event,” Diggle offered quietly. “Ask that they keep an eye on any of the press that might be there. I’ll stick by your side the entire night.” He paused, watching with a tender expression as the archer wrapped his arms around his service dog to embrace Hunter’s furry, warm form and bury his head into the dog’s scruff. “Do you want me to ask Tommy or Laurel to come?”

Oliver shook his head, wincing when Hunter’s whiskers tickled his neck. “No, it’s… fine. They’ve already done enough for me.”

He spent the rest of the afternoon finishing off his book with Hunter napping on top of him, one of his hands always grooming through the service dog’s pelt and tracing the spots and patches of tan and chocolate woven into the blond. When the evening transpired, he watched his mother and QC’s PR department make an announcement about Oliver’s service dog and mental health; Diggle swooped up out of nowhere halfway through the broadcast just as Moira started talking about the ‘horrific trauma’ and ‘detrimental effect on his mental health’, switching the TV off. The bodyguard made some comment under his breath about Oliver being a masochist, which made Hunter snarl and nip his hand in a reprimand.

“I want to know what they’re saying,” Oliver protested, groping for the remote on the coffee table, blanket slipping off his shoulders. “Give it here.”

“No,” Diggle said shortly. “You’re going to work yourself into a state if you watch that.”

“They’re talking about _me_!” the archer growled.

“Yes, they are,” Diggle’s agreed. “But you do not need to hear exactly what they are saying. Those vultures are going to twist the information in that statement and make it much worse than it actually is, and they are undoubtedly going to say some horrible things that are not true. If you truly want to know what your mom’s statement included, then you can ask her yourself. Give yourself a break, man.”

Frustrated, Oliver gave in. He asked Diggle to tell his family that he was going out for a walk in the grounds to get some air, but ended up heading over to the Foundry to do some shooting to work off his nervous energy. Hunter was anxious, and overbearing, refusing to leave the archer’s side even as he fired arrows into targets and tennis balls, but Oliver knew that the service dog was just worried about him. After the panic attack caused by the press, he was bound to have nightmares in his sleep.

The night terrors came and went through the darkness, making Oliver twist in the sheets and blankets he was using to slightly soften the hard surface of the floor, and causing him to awake several times, panting and sweating. The overwhelming fear and helplessness swamped his body, making him shake and struggle for breath, but Hunter soothed him, rumbling soothingly and nuzzling under his armpits and neck to ground him to reality.

Oliver ate a banana for breakfast and skipped lunch, feeling sick to his stomach as the event grew closer and closer. The morning he spent in the gardens with Hunter, fingers rubbing his thumb as he threw tennis balls repeatedly for the service dog, mind always wandering back to those _what if_ situations, and the afternoon he played various card games with Diggle, the activity being suggested by his bodyguard as a stress-relieving pastime.

Evening arrived with a biting wind chill, the weather in Starling turning as the sun set, wavering below the horizon. The archer swallowed an anti-anxiety pill that he found in a dusty prescription bottle in the medicine cupboard; it was probably out of date and could cause him to become ill, but the effects of the pill were exactly the same - within half an hour, he was much calmer and less agitated than before, and Hunter could sense the change easily, not being as clingy or nosy as before. Diggle greeted him at the foot of the stairs and once Oliver was in the car, he partook in some breathing exercises, trying to settle his already racing heart rate, scratching under Hunter’s chin as the service dog rested his clean paws on his lap and snuffled his face affectionately.

“You’ve got this, Oliver,” Diggle said lowly, opening up the door for him.

“Do I?” he laughed breathlessly, a tight ball of tension and unease squirming in his chest. He glanced around, and flinched when he caught sight of the line of police officers keeping a flock of rabid reporters behind a barrier, on the other side of the room. “I don’t know if I can do this, Dig.”

“I’ll be by your side the entire time,” the bodyguard assured him. “And Hunter will be there too. We keep it under control, and everything will be fine.”

“I hope so,” he muttered.

Paranoia and cautiousness kicking in as soon as he entered the Grand Hall where the gala is taking place, Oliver was pleasantly surprised to note that the atmosphere was much quieter and more reserved than he’d been expecting - the room was lit with dim lights, and the music was soft and melodic, not grating and loud as it usually was at events like this. Nobody turned to stare and whisper nastily about him when he stepped into the room, and when Hunter emerged from the doorway to stand by Oliver’s side, it caused a few people to look over very briefly in curiosity, but they turned away swiftly and went back to their conversations. He was amazed that he was able to cross the hall to reach his mother, stepfather and sister without being ambushed or contested by some budding reporter or nosy one-percenter.

“Hey,” he murmured, pressing kisses to Moira and Theas’ cheeks and shaking Walter’s hand. There was a middle aged looking man standing with them, and as Oliver ran his gaze up and down the man, he stiffened, smile freezing. This man had clearly seen conflict, and he was staring back at the archer with his own look of careful calculation. They were both threat processing - processing each _other_. Hunter seemed intrigued, stepping forwards and swishing his tail back and forth as he cocked his head at the older man, whining. “Hi, I’m Oliver Queen.”

“Evan Williams,” the man responded, shaking his hand, but pulling back just as quickly as the archer did.

Oliver glanced back to where Diggle cleared his throat. “And this is my bodyguard, Mr Diggle.”

“We know each other, actually,” Evan nodded, and he and Diggle matched smiles. “John has helped out before with the Veteran Trust.”

“And been helped by you in exchange,” Diggle said. “I wouldn’t be in work if I didn’t have the Trust’s support. It truly does deserve every dollar donated.” 

“I couldn’t agree more.” Oliver tucked his hands behind his back, clasping his fingers together in order to forcibly stop himself from starting up his nervous tick. “This is such a wonderful event to highlight such an important cause.”

“Thank you for coming this evening, Mr Queen, we very much appreciate the support, and although I can’t imagine you are very pleased with it… the press response to your recent reveals has resulted in a massive surge of support for the Starling Veteran Trust. So thank you again.”

“I’m glad there’s been a positive impact,” Oliver replied, fake smile firmly in place. He waved a hand down at his service dog, ruffling the Husky mix’s ears. “This is Hunter.”

Evan’s attitude completely changed. He immediately became more open as he knelt down in front of the service dog, voice very serious but with a teasing lilt to it as he offered his hand to shake. “Very nice to meet you, Mr Hunter.”

Hunter huffed, blue eyes gleaming as he lifted a paw and placed it on top of the veteran’s hand, whiskers twitching. Evan stood back up without even attempting to stroke or fuss over the service dog, and Oliver was relieved. Evan was a veteran - he clearly understood the duties and rules concerning service dogs, and considering the respect he had treated and greeted both Oliver and Hunter with… the archer liked this man.

“The atmosphere is quite relaxed this evening,” Oliver said, as neither Moira, Walter or Thea stepped up to fill the silence that had started to fall, creating an awkward lull. “I have to admit, it honestly isn’t what I was expecting.”

“A lot of veterans are attending tonight,” Evan explained, motioning to a waiter that was coming around with a tray of drinks. Oliver could feel his eyebrows rising into his hairline as he realised that the tray was half filled with flutes of champagne, but the other half had small glasses of orange juice. Far more preferable than alcohol. He took one of the orange juices whilst his family took champagne, and fixed his attention on Evan in mild interest as the man continued. “Many of them have PTSD, and are light and noise sensitive. It’s important to recognise that and accommodate any needs and predilections our guests tonight have.”

“That’s very sensitive of you,” Walter commented.

“And must be rather difficult,” Moira added. “It must be hard to cater to all of the requirements of your guests, especially if some of the accommodations are complex to put in place.”

“It’s not difficult at all,” Evan replied, his eyes piercing and tone turning cold. “And it’s the least we could do for the men and women who are serving for our country. Turning the lights down slightly or ensuring the music isn’t loud, or that the glasses are plastic instead of glass so they don’t shatter if dropped - they’re insignificant changes in the long run, and if it means our guests are more comfortable in this environment, we try our very best to make those changes. Surely you understand that.”

“Of course,” Oliver answered. He swallowed, looking straight ahead at Evan as the corner of his eye picked up Moira, Walter and Thea shooting surprised looks towards him. He heard Diggle make a small, satisfied noise behind him.

“You understand?” Moira said, confused.

“The need to accommodate for the sensory overloads that can be caused by noise and light? Yes.” The archer shrugged. “It’s a general symptom of PTSD. Hunter helps me a lot with it, but it’s still something I have to cope with on a daily basis.”

“So you can appreciate first hand what we’re doing here tonight,” Evan smiled.

“It’s why I commented on it not being what I expected,” Oliver nodded.

Diggle added, “It’s quite unusual to attend an event that is sensitive to PTSD sufferers.”

Seeing how people were starting to turn and look at their group from the side, curious at what they were talking about, Oliver shifted on his feet and added, “Perhaps we should go and speak with some others. We’re attracting attention over here.”

“Actually, Oliver, before you and your family make your rounds for the evening, I’d like to introduce you to somebody,” Evan informed them, not seeming to notice when Moira aimed a pointed, irritated glare his way. Narrowing his eyes, Oliver cautiously observed the man’s body language for a few seconds; once he was content that Evan seemed to have good intentions, he gave a short nod.

Thea raised an eyebrow as Evan lead him away, mouthing curiously, Who?  
Oliver shrugged in response, but seeing how Hunter was relaxed and plodding ahead, glancing back every so often to check that his master and Diggle were following on his heels. They crossed the room, scarcely attracting any attention from the other guests at the gala, but the archer slowed his stride due to confusion and slight wariness as they approached a small group that were conversing on the edge of the hall.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Evan said graciously as he stepped forwards, offering the other guests smiles. “I just wanted to introduce Mr Queen to Ms Walker here.”

The other guests apparently understood instantly, exchanging glances as they nodded and thanked Evan for inviting them to the event before slipping off. Oliver ducked his head a little, shuffling nervously on his feet as the people walked past him, some of them gazing down at Hunter with interest. The service dog’s ears perked up and his whiskers twitched, head swivelling around to get a glimpse of each person before he turned back to Oliver, blinking.

When Evan urged Oliver over, the archer inhaled deeply and pushed through until he was by the man’s side, body stiffened and tensed in preparation for the unknown he was facing. Upon walking up to Evan, however, the archer immediately ground to the halt, the feeling of astonishment blossoming in his chest. The person Evan wanted to introduce Oliver to was a fair-haired woman in a wheelchair with a black Labrador lying next to her. At the sight of another dog, Hunter froze just behind Oliver’s legs, tail lifting up and ears pricking forwards in excitement. Diggle let out an audible chuckle at the dog’s reaction.

“Charlie, thank you so much for coming this evening,” Evan greeted the woman. “Oliver, this is Charlie Walker – and her service dog, Lyra.”

The archer was speechless, not knowing what to say, but luckily for him, the woman sensed this and instead wheeled forwards a metre or so and offered her hand to him. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr Queen.” Casting a quick look over at Evan, she told him quietly, “It’s alright, Evan, you can go back to greeting guests, Mr Queen and I will be fine to talk.”

“Oliver.” The archer’s eyes snapped over to his bodyguard, and Diggle was looking at him closely, observing him. “I’m going to go and grab a drink,” he said. “On the other side of the room. I’ll be watching you from there. Is that alright?”

He nodded, managing a small smile before his gaze wandered back to the pair of dogs. Oliver was too focused on keeping his watch on Hunter worriedly to see Evan and Diggle leave, as the Husky mix had approached the Labrador and they were now both on their feet, sniffing but proceeding to investigate each other with extreme caution. Neither of them were acting violent towards each other, however, so the archer reluctantly dragged his gaze away from the pair of dogs to regard the Labrador service dog’s owner guardedly.

There was a brief moment of frigid silence before Oliver shook himself, easily falling back onto his public persona as he managed to plaster on a charming smile. “Sorry, where are my manners? Oliver Queen. But you… probably already knew that.”

“And I’m Charlie Walker,” the woman replied. “But you knew that too. It’s alright, you can ask,” she added, motioning down to her legs, as the archer had been carefully keeping his eyes away from her lower half and wheelchair. “It’s paralysis, it’s not as if I’m half naked.”

“Sorry, I didn’t… think…”

“It was an IED,” she smiled. “Our Rover hit it, on the side of the road in Iraq. If you were wondering. Knocked my spine out of alignment, severed my spinal cord. No, don’t apologise. People always apologise, for no reason; it’s not as if it was your fault. It was mine, I wasn’t alert enough. It took me a while to get over it, which is why I have Lyra now.” When Oliver’s heedful stare wandered back to where the two dogs were inspecting each other again, Charlie asked, “Is this the first time you’ve met somebody else with a service dog?”

Raising his head and swallowing, Oliver admitted, “Yes. Can you tell?”

“Only because I’ve been in the exact position that you have before,” Charlie reassured him, smiling. “It can be a bit of a shock. You’re so used to being the only person in the immediate vicinity with one that when you come face to face with somebody else who has a dog, who might even possibly begin to understand the problems you have and social issues you face daily, it can take a few minutes to process that.”

Oliver nodded wordlessly, very slowly kneeling down and calling Hunter back to him softly. The Husky mix quickly trotted back to the archer, nudging his arm and nuzzling his chest with a huff, and then the Labrador bounded up behind him, her rough tongue acquainting itself with Oliver’s face rather suddenly for his liking. It was only once Charlie nodded, giving permission, that Oliver reached out to gently stroke the black Labrador’s ears.

“Lyra likes you,” the woman offered. “That doesn’t happen very often. You must be a special one.”

“Oh, there’s nothing special about me,” he muttered, avoiding her piercing gaze. “I guess you could say there’s nothing to me at all.”

She tilted her head. “That’s not true.”

“Well, no.” He gave a rather bitter smile. “There’s a lot of mental issues which could technically classify me as insane.”

“Your mental issues do not define you,” Charlie said sharply. “What makes you think that? The media? The public? How the world reacted to your coming out as a PTSD-sufferer and service dog owner?” When Oliver didn’t answer, she sighed, pointing at herself. “Mr Queen, I suffer from chronic PTSD and anxiety. Do you think that’s all I am?”

“No,” he murmured.

“Right,” Charlie nodded. “Because I may have chemical imbalances in my brain, and my mind might have fractured a little due to exposure to trauma when I did my tours, but I am also a human being. I have my own personality and character. War did not break me as a person.”

“It’s different,” Oliver said hotly. “I never went to war, Ms Walker.”

“You went through a trauma,” Charlie argued.

“And I died.” The archer shuddered, standing and wincing when Hunter poked his nose into his leg with a concerned, rumbling whine. “The man that I was, the boy who was shipwrecked on that island five years ago… he’s dead. I took his place, and I’m living his life. My personality and characters are ghosts.”

“I’m not asking you to tell me about what happened to you,” Charlie shook her head. “Even though it is rather obvious that you weren’t alone there - don’t interrupt,” her voice grew fierce as he opened his mouth to cut her off in protest, and the archer ducked his head, suitably chastised. “I watched you as you entered this room. How you processed the threats, how you reacted to people and how you reacted when approaching and being introduced to me. You react like a man who has seen too much, suffered through too much, and has learnt that trusting people too openly results in pain.” Oliver flinched back, and Hunter uttered a warning growl to Charlie. “I’m just saying - you’ve accepted your PTSD. You’ve accepted that you went through a trauma, and that your mental health was detrimentally affected by it. But now you need to accept that you are who you are.”

“It’s not accepting _myself_ that’s the problem,” Oliver shot back.

Lifting her chin, the woman furrowed her brow, observing him quietly for a few seconds. Lyra returned to Charlie’s side to lick at her hands where she was bracing them against the wheelchair arms.

“Why do you care about what the public thinks?” she asked softly. “They don’t know you.”

“They _think_ they do.”

“But they don’t. And you shouldn’t care what they think. You don’t exist for the public. They don’t have any rights to your personal life.” Charlie blinked and looked away, frustrated. “And I really shouldn’t be the person having this conversation with you. Haven’t your family told you this? Please at least tell me that the statement last night announcing that you have PTSD was sanctioned by you.”

“It was.”

“Did you want to do it?”

He didn’t reply.

“Oliver, I don’t know you,” Charlie said honestly. “But you seem like a very genuine, kind person. Somebody who has experienced a lot of pain in his life that he didn’t deserve, and somebody who deserves peace and solitude when he wants it. Don’t play into the public’s hands and release information you’re not comfortable with them knowing.”

“It was the only way to get them to leave Hunter and I alone,” he said quietly.

“Is everything alright here?”

Oliver averted his gaze as Diggle came up from behind with a glass of orange juice in hand, and instead focused it instead on Hunter, running his slightly trembling hands through his fur and pressing a kiss to the service dog’s forehead. 

“I don’t think Mr Queen is okay with all the press and media as he’s been making out to be,” Charlie relayed to Diggle in a hushed voice.

Diggle looked momentarily taken back by this, but then the realisation seemed to settle in and his expression hardened. “Oliver, you agreed to the extra statement.”

“Because it was the only option,” he finally bit out, and he knew that his internal anger and frustration was showing in his eyes due to the step Diggle took backwards when his gaze snapped upwards.

“I’m sorry, Oliver,” Diggle said lowly. “I thought you were okay with this. Obviously, I was wrong.”

“I am okay with this,” the archer fired back. “But only because I have to be. I have to cope with this. Because now the entire world knows that Oliver Queen is fucked up in the head enough to need a service dog, and has PTSD and depression and social anxiety. And I know it was suggested as a plan to get the media to back off, but do you really think this is going to work? That they’re not going to take advantage of knowing what mental illnesses I have?”

“Maybe you two should have this conversation alone,” Charlie muttered, wheeling herself backwards and away from them a few metres. “And personally, I think this is a conversation we should be having with your family.”

Slipping back into his public persona, the archer wheeled back to her and shook her hand, saying flatly, “It was very nice to meet you, Ms Walker, thank you for speaking with me this evening.”

“My pleasure.” Charlie pulled herself away, shooting one last pointed look at Oliver before heading off, Lyra padding silently at her side. Hunter watched the other service dog leave with a somewhat wistful expression before he settled back on his haunches at the archer’s feet.

When Diggle turned and raised an eyebrow at him, Oliver sighed. “I don’t want to talk about this right now.” Oliver ran a hand over his face tiredly. “I want to let it go, move on with life and survive.”

“This isn’t the island, Oliver. Survival is not your goal here.”

“Digg. Please.”

“Fine.” His bodyguard pointed at him. “But we will discuss this. Let’s just make sure you survive this gala, get you home and safe for the night. You and Hunter can have a physical comfort session and then if you’re ready tomorrow morning to talk about this, then we’ll continue this conversation.”

Resigned, the archer buried a hand in Hunter’s scruff and walked away, heading back to where Thea and Walter were talking to two other people, Diggle trailing silently behind him. As long as he got through the rest of this evening, he would be fine. Hunter was pressing tightly to his side, rumbling gently with his tail swishing from side to side, curling around the back of his master’s calves protectively.

“Hey, buddy,” Oliver said quietly, hesitating just before he reached his family so that he could kneel down and stroke Hunter’s ears. “Wanna jump this joint and go to the Foundry for a cuddle session?”

Hunter huffed, ears pricking as he leant forwards to lick his master’s chin, blue eyes blinking at Oliver in such a way that it made him grin.

“We heading out?” Diggle questioned, quirking an eyebrow behind Hunter. When the archer glanced quickly up at him in response, the bodyguard added, “We can pick up Big Belly Burger as we’re heading to the Foundry.”

Motioning over to Walter that he was leaving, and feeling relieved as his stepfather gave an understanding nod, Oliver started towards the exit doors, Hunter padding by his side and Diggle just behind him. “Have I mentioned that you’re the best bodyguard I’ve ever had?”

“The only other one you’ve had was Rob. And he barely lasted twenty four hours.”

“Yeah, but he never tried to follow me into the men’s restroom.”

“You’re never gonna let me live that one down, are you?”

“Um, considering that you waited in front of the urinals for half an hour after Hunter and I climbed out the window… no, no, I am not.”

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave kudos and comment :)
> 
> Tumblr: @alexiablackbriar13  
> Twitter: @lexiblackbriar


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